Many years ago, in the 70s, I was on a business trip to San Francisco. One of the attractions getting all the ‘buzz’ at the time was a bar that featured a ‘nude cocktail hour.”
In the interest of man’s right to knowledge and the free use thereof, I decided to visit.
The only difference from any of dozens of other nice trendy bars was an attractive nude model posing for an artist in a prominent corner. Every now and then the artist would decide to change the pose and would wrap the model in a covering before she would move into the next position.
Aside from the artist, the only other attempts at art by inspired patrons were the usual raunchy grafitti in the men’s room. Perhaps they did better work inthe privacy of their own bathrooms.
I got a phone number from the model. It was Dial-a-Prayer.
Was she trying to tell you that you didn't have one?